Song of Solomon
Last night the sky opened its hands
in the dark and a monsoon poured over the cottage.
From gutters rivers flowed,
spitting and moaning.
We rose up out of our beds to watch
Indians drumming.
the same spectacular moment
God held Mojo in the dark of another room
of too much light.
Holds her still though the parrot
in its cage imagines a shackle
and sings for what it understands
is missing.
The larger the heart, the greater its light shines.
In her room that is too white for winter
bald eagles keep gathering.
The hurried nurse shoos with her arms back and forth
but they won't listen.
You would think it's a salmon run
but the pinks aren't due till December.
Although none of this
makes sense to us now,
eagles perch to tell us something:
like worry is a pastime not suited for royalty,
and God blesses the open-mouthed who sing,
or take a moment to imagine the Wilson,
its bald and good natured company.
Mojo--in her little boat of unfurling sails,
we pray the wind will not find--
smiled at that.
by T.L. Stokes
c2013 TL Stokes (all rights reserved)
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